


Tea and Being Free

by tarie



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-08
Updated: 2012-11-08
Packaged: 2017-11-18 05:03:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/557173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tarie/pseuds/tarie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ron's no longer the Boy Who Lived's 'Loyal Sidekick', and he's feeling pretty useless. Malfoy, on the other hand, has finally gotten over living in Harry's shadow. Ron wants to learn how, but he'd never admit that to Malfoy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tea and Being Free

He didn't know what to do.

It'd been months and he _still_ didn't know what to do with himself now that the war was over.

After years upon years of fighting Voldemort one way or another and spending nearly every waking - and sleeping - moment figuring out just how he was going to protect Harry as best he could, Ron wasn't so sure he could adapt to this Post-War world, now that there wasn't a need to do either of those things. 

The war was over. Voldemort had been defeated and Harry was dead by his own hand. 

Not wanting to believe that Harry would even consider to do such a thing, Ron had gone nearly mad when Harry had calmly told Hermione and him of his plans just before he went off to face Voldemort for that final time. Harry had spoken of the prophecy again and recounted the night Voldemort came back in their fourth year at the conclusion of the Triwizard Tournament. It had been Harry's own blood - _blood of the enemy...forcibly taken_ \- that had resurrected Voldemort. With Harry alive and his blood running through Voldemort's veins, the Dark Lord has been restored to full power. The way Harry saw things, he had explained, if he were to die, that part of himself that was acting as a life force for Voldemort would snuff out and Voldemort's power would be rendered obsolete. No matter how fiercely Ron had argued that there was another way to defeat Voldemort, Harry quietly insisted that it was the _only_ way that was sure to work. Thickly, her lower lip trembling, Hermione had agreed with Harry. The only sure-fire way to beat Voldemort was to take away the thing on which he had been so dependent, the thing on which he would never expect would be his downfall. 

Ron had been so absolutely crazed when Harry told them goodbye that Hermione resorted to casting the Body Binding Charm on him, tears streaming down her face as she did so. After making them swear they would take care of one another, Harry pulled Hermione into a hug and Ron saw him whisper into her ear, which only served to make Hermione cry outright. He then crossed to Ron and looked him long and hard in the face, green eyes searching blue for what felt both like yonks and no time at all. After a moment's hesitation, he wrapped his arms around Ron and pressed their cheeks together. Petrified, he couldn't lift up his arms to reciprocate Harry's hug and he half-thought it was a good thing, too. He might have held on and not let Harry go. 

Although Harry had whispered in Hermione's ear when he held her, he said nothing to Ron. Nothing at all. He just held him. That was all right with Ron; he _knew_. Harry didn't have to say a word. It was just like always, like old times. They said so much to one another without uttering a single syllable. True, they'd shared a tonne of laughs and good times throughout the course of their friendship, but some of the _best_ times had been when they'd just sat by the fireplace after a good flight around the Quidditch pitch, too exhausted to do anything other than warm their hands in the heat of the flames and sink back onto their chairs, stretching their legs out and kicking half-heartedly at one another’s feet.

"You'd better go, Harry," Hermione had said after a long silence. "They're waiting for you." 

Ron felt Harry nod rather than saw him, closing his eyes as his best mate's warmth withdrew. Blood pounded in his ears and a voice in his head shrieked over and over _this is it, this is it, this is it, this is--_

And then he felt it. A light, fumbling kick to one foot and then the other. A lump formed in his throat and he opened his eyes just in time to see Harry duck out of the tent.

Just like that, he was gone.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

In the first few weeks after Harry’s death, Ron did little more than wander around the Burrow aimlessly.

Honestly, he didn’t even want to be _there_. Bill, Fred, and his mum had been casualties of the war as well and the Burrow felt odd now. It no longer felt like a home; it felt like a bloody persistent thorn in his side. It was uncomfortable and, no matter how much he moved around, it just _hurt_. 

When he was younger, he never thought in a million years that he’d do anything but love the Burrow. But now he hated it. 

The Burrow was a constant reminder of the warmth, laughter, love, family, and friends that were forever lost to him.

There wasn’t anywhere else to go.

Ginny was in pieces and Arthur wasn’t much better off. Ron knew they missed his mum and brothers, but he was beyond tired of their sad faces and tears. Percy had been missing for months (and Ron expected he was dead, but he wouldn’t dare say so to the other Weasleys) and Charlie and George were off doing something in Romania, eager to get away from the constant gloom of the Burrow. So Ron was the one left at home to hold things together, to pick up the pieces and mend things so the Weasley clan could accept what had happened and move on.

When he realised that it was up to him to fill the void that his mum had left, Ron forced himself to snap out of his grief and take care of his family. 

Tea had been his mum’s answer for every problem life presented you with, no matter how big or small. Stub your toe? Have a cuppa. Get a lower mark on your essay than you thought you deserved? Have a cuppa. Take a spill from your broom? Have a cuppa. Someone you care about passed away? Have a cuppa. 

Of course, it went without saying that a cuppa from Molly Weasley also came with advice or a lecture, when applicable, but that was neither here nor there.

Ron became an expert tea maker. 

That was it. Just an expert tea maker. He wasn’t much interested in dispensing advice or lecturing people, like his mum had always done after she'd settled them in with a nice cuppa. He himself was so buggered up on the inside that it would’ve been mad to try and help someone out that way.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Three cups of tea per person three times a day.

A cuppa for his dad. A cuppa for Ginny. A cuppa for himself. Breakfast, lunch, and teatime. No more, no less.

He’d been in the middle of pouring his cup of tea (The 460th cup poured since the war ended; he'd been keeping track. What else did he have to do with his time now?) when Hermione stumbled out of the Weasley's Floo. 

He knew it was her because she called into the kitchen, apologising for popping in unannounced. 

His dad and Ginny pushed back their chairs and scurried out of the kitchen to go greet her, while Ron stayed in the kitchen.

Maybe he should have returned one of her owls. Well, he assumed that she'd owled him. He didn't quite know; he hadn't actually _looked_ at his post in the last month and a half. Every time Pig brought him something, Ron would accept the envelope or small parcel and toss it in a box in the corner of his room. It was too soon; he wasn't ready to deal with sympathies or polite inquiries as to his health or how the family was doing and such. 

Most of all, he didn't want to be reminded of his losses.

Ginny and his dad talked about Bill, Fred, and his mum every single day. They reminisced and cried and looked at pictures while Ron went out back and de-gnomed the garden. He didn't want to talk about them. Talking about them would mean to more talking and more talking would lead to Harry.

Ron wasn't ready to talk about Harry. 

One time, a number of weeks ago, Ginny had brought up his name. Apparently she'd found a green jumper that their mum had been in the middle of knitting for Harry and she wanted to show it to Ron. 

Without so much as a second glance at Ginny, he withdrew his wand from his back pocket and incinerated the jumper. Then he Disapparated to the ruins of Hogwarts (its wards having been breeched in the War) and let the Whomping Willow have at him. Only when he was good and bruised and bloodied from the violent thrashings of the tree's branches did he Apparate home, directly into his room.  
Out in the other room, Ginny called Ron to come and see Hermione, but he pretended to have not heard her. Draining his cuppa, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and pushed open the kitchen door, heading out to the yard.

On the outer edges of the Weasley property was a small pond. A lot of good memories had been made there and Ron gravitated toward it, sinking almost gratefully down into the grass at the water's edge. Fisting one hand in the grass, he inhaled deeply and closed his eyes, willing it all to go away. It. Everything. Anything. 

Vaguely he wondered how difficult it would be to acquire a Time-Turner. The thought was accompanied by a rather large lump in his throat, which he swallowed against. Fingers on his free hand brushed against something smooth and cool. A rock. 

Opening his eyes, he stared hard at the water's smooth surface and skipped the rock across it, watching the ripples. For some reason, he felt a mite calmer. More rocks, he decided, would be good. 

After he'd secured a nice amount, he began to alternately skip and sink rocks across and into the pond. 

He'd been just about ready to lob his last rock into the water when someone sat down beside him, their shoulder brushing against his.

"Hullo, Hermione." His eyes never left the pond.

"Ron." 

She sounded worried, not that it surprised him. 

"Don't."

"Honestly, Ron, I just--"

"Hermione," he said sharply, pulling his gaze away from the pond's surface at last and turning his face in toward hers. "I know what you're going to say and I don't want you to say it, all right? I'm not daft. I know I'm right fucked up, okay? You don't have to tell me I am or that you're worried. I know all that."

She looked at him for a long time, not saying a word. He wasn't sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing or if he even wanted her to talk at all. It'd been so long since he'd seen her - the last time had been when they'd buried what had been left of Harry. She'd aged a lifetime since then - her eyes seemed sunken in, her hair limper (Or was it thinner? He couldn't be sure.), her face less round. She looked as old as Ron felt and he wondered if he looked the same to her.

Silence hung heavily in the air between them. It was uncomfortable and he didn't like it one bit. Hermione was his best friend and he had absolutely no idea what to say to her or what to do. While this wasn't entirely an uncommon thing throughout the course of her friendship, he knew that it was uncommon to get the same sense from _her_. 

Unable to take the tension any more, he tossed the last stone into the pond, jumping at how loud the _plunk_ of rock breaking the water's surface seemed. She lay a hand on his arm, probably to steady him, he thought. She'd always done things like that to him and Harry, touch them lightly for this reason or that reason. When he'd been younger, it annoyed Ron because it was something his mum would have done. When he'd been a bit older and had been in the middle of his mad crush on her, it made his ears flame red and stomach do a little flip flop. Right then, though, her hand on his arm didn't do any of those things. Rather, it completely shattered him.

As her fingers curled around the curve of his forearm, he gasped, eyes flickering from her face to her hand and back again. 

He _felt_ something then. 

A lot of somethings. 

He felt so much that he couldn't stop the tears or the sobs or the shoulders racked with grief, nor could he stop himself from wrapping his arms around her frame and pressing his face against the warmth of her neck.

"I just miss him," Hermione whispered, smoothing back his hair, holding him while he finally let it out.

"Yeah," he choked out, soaking the collar of her jumper with his tears. 

So did he. So very much.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

At his insistence, Hermione stayed the night at the Burrow. Ginny and his dad appreciated her company as much as Ron did. She fussed over the three of them, cooked them dinner, and filled them in on various Order members and some of the things that had been going on at the Ministry. His dad took a leave of absence after his mum had been killed. Ron thought it would be best if he went back to work soon; being at home wasn't doing anything to help him get over his grief.

In the morning over tea, Hermione asked him if he'd read any of the post she sent him. When he admitted that he hadn't, she gave him that look that he knew meant business and confided that he'd read none of his post since Harry's death before she even asked him about it. He'd known her long enough to realise that sometimes it was better just to give up the what she wanted to know willingly before she could interrogate him about it. Less painful that way, really.

"So you didn't get post from the barrister, then?" she asked after he was done with his confession.

"Er..." He rubbed at the back of his neck, dropping his eyes to the rim of his mug. "I probably did," he said slowly, "but I just put it in the box."

"Ron, you really ought to have-- what box?"

"I've a box in my room with all the post," he mumbled, feeling the back of his neck grow warm. No doubt it was flushed red. 

"Show me," she said suddenly, standing up quickly. 

Knowing better than to argue with that tone of voice, he led her up the rickety stairs to his room. The plaque on the door that read 'Ronald's Room' was crooked. Not bothering to straighten it, he opened the door and ushered her inside. From their cages, Pig and Hedwig hooted questioningly. Gesturing to the corner where the box was, he went to his trunk and took out a few Owl Treats, dropping an equal number into each cage while Hermione hauled out the box and set it on his bed.

Together they went through his post, placing it in stacks on his bed organised by name of sender. Ron didn't even know who some of the people sending him post were, although Hermione said that they likely were supporters of Harry or people who wanted to thank him for what he and his family had done for the wizarding world. That was all rubbish, in his opinion. They hadn't _known_ Harry or his family. Their intentions may have been good but he wanted nothing to do with any of them. If he could trade their lives for Harry or his mum or Bill or Fred or Percy, he'd do it without a moment's hesitation.

When they got to the bottom of the box, there were only a few pieces of post left. Hermione reached in and gave half of the envelopes to him. He thumbed through them and placed things on the appropriate pile, looking up when she announced that she found the barrister's letter.

Telling her to open it, he glanced back down at the last envelope in his hand, starting a little when he saw the name on the back of it. No address. Just a name.

_**D Malfoy** _

_Why the sod would that fuckwit send me--_

"Ron?" 

Her voice broke into his thoughts and he hastily shoved the envelope in the back pocket of his trousers. 

"Yeah?" he asked, not liking the guilty-sounding hitch in his voice one bit.

"I think you need to see this, is all," she said solemnly, pushing the fine parchment into his hands.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It shouldn't have surprised him that Harry had the foresight to make his final arrangements. Hell, Voldemort had been trying to kill him since essentially since he was one year old, hadn't he?

He'd left a good lot of Galleons to Hermione so that she could start up the shelter for house elves that she'd always wanted. She'd gotten her own letter from Harry's barrister about it not soon after Voldemort had been defeated, she said. The date on Ron's post from the barrister was the same day as hers had been; Ron had just never actually looked at it until the day they went through the post in his box.

Harry left the rest of contents of his parents' Gringotts vault to Ron.

Overcome by pride, he hadn't wanted to take it at first. But Hermione insisted that it was what Harry had wanted for him and he should do it as Harry's last request. 

That was the only reason he took Harry's money.

A good portion of it went to his dad and he hired a witch to come in a few days a week to clean the Burrow and help Ginny run the household. With what was left over for Ron, he rented out a flat on Diagon Alley, deciding that he had to get away from the Burrow for a while. He told himself that it would only be for a month or so until he felt better about things, but that was a lie. He _had_ to get away from the Burrow once and for all. If his dad or Ginny really needed him, he was just a Floo away, unlike Charlie and George.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

During the first few days in his new flat, he spent his time moving furniture and things about the Muggle way. True, he could have just waved his wand and had things in proper order much faster, but there was a certain amount of satisfaction gained in physically moving everything himself.

When he was finally satisfied as to how things were set up, Ron decided that the next order of business was to find a job of some sort with which to occupy his time. He couldn't just lay about his flat and make tea. It wouldn't be good for him. He knew that now after doing that very thing at the Burrow. 

He needed something to take his mind off of Harry and the fact that he didn't really have a direction with his life any longer.

So off to search for a job he was.

His flat was over the cauldron shop just behind the Leaky Cauldron. Although the proprietor of the cauldron shop seemed nice enough and she _was_ hiring, he didn't think he could bear to work there. Besides the fact that it would be dead boring, it kind of reminded him of Percy.

Passing by the storefront window, he waved to the witch straightening out a display of brass cauldrons and continued on down the street. Every so often he would stop to look in shop windows and eventually he began to get the feeling that he was being watched. Tiny hairs on the back of his neck stood up and he flipped up the cowl of his cloak, hunching down a little and picking up the pace. His face had been all over the likes of _The Daily Prophet_ in the last months of the war; no doubt people recognised him. No way in Hades did he want to stop and have a chat with some random stranger about the war and nod as they went on about 'poor Harry Potter, what a sacrifice he made'. 

Flourish and Blott's was hiring, he noticed, so he slipped inside and filled out an application slip. Pushing it across the counter at a rosy-cheeked young witch, he thanked her, smiling politely when she said he'd hear from the manager via owl about the status of his application by the end of the week. The display of _Martin Miggs_ comics caught his eye and he purchased one, giving the girl a few extra Knuts as a tip and pushed open the shop's door, stepping back out onto the cobblestoned street.

After a quick stop in the Magical Menagerie to pick up some more Owl Treats, he put in an application slip at Ollivander's and decided to head back home. He hadn't been able to shake that 'being watched' feeling and was quite craving a cuppa, so that seemed the best thing to do.

Ron was almost back to the cauldron shop when he came upon Quality Quidditch Supplies. He'd resisted going in earlier but the lure of the sales placard in the window was too strong to pass up this time around. It'd been so long since he'd played Quidditch, let alone flown his broom. The old thing could probably use a bit of sprucing up and he'd no idea what happened to his broomstick servicing kit. Best if he bought a new one, he reckoned.

Bypassing the display of the latest Firebolt model, he headed for the shelf where he knew the broomstick servicing kit would be. To his relief, there was one left. The shop was having a spectacular sale and there were quite a few empty shelves about the store. Bending down, he reached his hand out to take hold of the kit, frowning when another hand snatched the kit up.

"Oi," he said, standing up and spinning toward the git who'd budged in. "I was here _first_ and you can bloody well--"

"Hello, Weasley," Draco Malfoy interjected smoothly. 

"You," Ron hissed, scowling. He wasn't sure what he was more annoyed by - that Malfoy had taken the broomstick servicing kit right out from under him or the fact that Malfoy was just _there_.

"Me," he said nonchalantly.

" _You_."

Malfoy quirked a brow. "Yes, we've been through this already, Weasley. Me."

The tone really hacked him off. "Shove off," Ron said, jostling Malfoy with his elbow as he moved past him.

"Aren't you forgetting something, Weasley?"

_Bastard._

Ron stopped just short of the door and turned round to glare at him. "What's that?" he asked.

"This," Malfoy replied, holding out the kit to him.

"Fuck right off," Ron ground out through gritted teeth, whirling back to the door, not caring one bloody bit that it slammed loudly behind him. He hoped he broke the glass. He hoped he broke the glass and that Malfoy slipped, fell, and impaled himself on a piece or twelve.

It wasn't until he had gotten back inside his flat that he remembered he'd the unopened letter from Malfoy in the inner pocket of his cloak.

After shrugging his cloak off, he tossed it on a chair and plopped down on the settee, cursing Malfoy's name, when he noticed a corner of an envelope sticking out from the folds of his cloak. Curious as to what he might have put there, he went over to inspect it and discovered an envelope bearing the name "D Malfoy" on the back.

Right.

He'd nearly forgotten about that.

All right, so he hadn't. At all.

Before Hermione had left the Burrow, the two of them had taken a walk down to the Lovegoods'. It'd been a bit chilly that afternoon and he'd worn his cloak, transferring Malfoy's post from his back trouser pocket to the inner pocket on the cloak, thinking that he'd read it later that day. But when 'later' came around, he had found that he didn't want to know why Malfoy was owling him or what he had to say about anything.

Besides, maybe the envelope contained some sort of hex. 

Malfoy hadn't been a Death Eater like his dad, at least as far as Ron or the Order knew. Malfoy had actually fled to the States when things started to heat up in the wizarding world, according to rumour. Of course, there were also rumours that Malfoy became a Muggle fashion model and went by the name of Boyd Something-or-Other, so Ron wasn't really quite sure what to believe in regards to the likes of Draco Malfoy. All he knew was that he didn't fucking trust him and that it was dead peculiar of Malfoy to owl him. 

Maybe it was about time now that he opened the damned thing. 

Clutching the letter in his hand, he sank down onto the couch and brandished his wand, performing a few scans over the envelope. Satisfied that there weren't any hexes on the blasted thing after all, he ripped open the wax seal on the back and pulled out a neatly folded sheet of parchment. 

"Ron!"

His dad's voice called to him from the fireplace.

"Yeah Dad?" Ron asked, Malfoy's post momentarily forgotten as he focused on his dad's head in the fireplace.

"You just got an owl here with a parcel. Should I send Errol or would you like to come by for it?"

Ron frowned; Errol was far too old to take such a long flight. Honestly, he'd have to talk his dad into getting another one.

"No, I'll be over."

The parcel, it turned out, was from Malfoy.

Good thing Ron hadn't opened it at the Burrow, as the string of curses he let out when he saw the contents of the unmarked parcel were definitely something he wouldn't have wanted Ginny to hear.

Unlike the letter, the parcel just had Ron's name and address on it. There was no "D Malfoy" listed on the brown packaging paper or any other identifying marks. But Ron knew it had been from Malfoy all the same.

Malfoy sent him the broomstick servicing kit from Quality Quidditch Supplies.

Fuckwit.

He'd half a mind to send it straight back to him. Ron would have done it, too, if he had known where Malfoy called home these days. Why the sod would he accept a parcel from _Draco Malfoy_? Furthermore, why would Draco Malfoy send _him_ a parcel? Had he gone completely round the bend?

_Sod it all_. 

He wasn't going to read that prat's post. Crumbling up the parchment into a ball, he tossed it into the fireplace and watched as it the flames consumed it. If he hadn't wanted so badly to take his broom for a flight, he would have tossed the servicing kit in the fire as well.  
Broom all clipped, polished, and looking rather fit after a go with various instruments and polishes from the kit, Ron then waited until dusk and flew over London, taking care to stay high up in the clouds to avoid being spotted by Muggles. 

He didn't enjoy his first time on the broom in months as much as he could have. Malfoy was on his mind and it bloody well took a bit of the fun out of things.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The pink-cheeked witch at Flourish and Blott's was named Orla, Ron learned. He'd gotten the job at the bookshop and spent a number of shifts his first week there working with her. She'd been a few years behind him at Hogwarts and a Ravenclaw, not that he'd known her while they were at school together.

Working with her was rather all right. She was the only person there that would stare at him and then look away guiltily when caught in the act or whisper about him when she thought he was out of earshot. Orla was also the only person there who hadn't told Ron she was sorry about the loss of his family and Harry. He was fucking sick and bloody well tired of sympathy and the reminder that his best mate was dead and there wasn't anything he could do about it.

One particularly busy morning not long after he started his job at the bookshop, Ron and Orla were given the task of setting up the textbook section in preparation for students the following week. According to their boss, booklists for the school set up in Hogsmeade (as Hogwarts was in the process of being rebuilt) would be going out in a day or so and Flourish and Blott's needed to be prepared for the influx of students and parents.

Setting up the Arithmancy section, Ron noticed that there was a rather large gap in the middle of the Ancient Runes shelf, which he pointed out to Orla. Promising to find out if there had been a late shipment or something, she gave him a wave and headed to the storage room. Laughing at the ridiculous salute she'd given him before rounding a corner and disappearing from sight, he shook his head and turned back to the box of new Arithmancy books on the Floor. Picking a few up, he turned round....

And promptly scowled.

Malfoy.

"What're you doing here?" he asked hotly, dropping books on the shelf carelessly.

"This is a shop, is it not?" Malfoy said, gesturing to their surroundings.

"It is," Ron grunted, adding more books to the shelf, letting them slip out of his fingers and land with a _slam_ on top of the first pile.

"Then I'm shopping, Weasley."

"Don't you mean 'Weasel'?" he asked pointedly.

Malfoy didn't answer right away and Ron couldn't help - nor would he have wanted to- the smug look from popping up on his face. "I thought so," he said, neatening up the pile.

"You thought wrong," Malfoy said finally. "I only speak what I want and I choose my words carefully; I don't dabble in false pleasantries or any of that drivel. Had I meant 'Weasel', Weasley, I would have used that word."

Ron's brow furrowed in confusion. Just who the merry fuck did Malfoy think he was? What was he trying to play? 

"What are you doing?" he demanded after a beat.

"Pardon?" 

"What. Are. You. Doing?" Ron said again. 

"I'm afraid I am not following you."

That little statement earned Malfoy a roll of the eyes. "I'm afraid you _are_. Or, at least, you have been."

Then the damnedest thing happened - Malfoy's eyes, which had been sort of glinting in a maddening sort of way, glazed over. It was like Ron could actually see Malfoy shutting him out.

"Good day, Weasel," he said in a hard voice, nodding curtly and taking a step backwards.

"Oh no you don't," Ron said, advancing toward him. "Where do you think you're going?"

"That isn't any of your concern."

"Yes it is. You made it my concern when you showed up here. You made it my concern when you owled me that parcel. You made it my concern when you owled me _that sodding letter_."

"As if I would--"

"Don't, Malfoy. I'm not daft. Stop taking the fucking mickey out on me and say whatever the sod it is you obviously want to say to me."

"Surely this place of employment provides you with a proper break?"

"It does."

"I will be in the tea room beside Gringotts Bank."

Ron sputtered. "What makes you think that I'll go there to--"

Holding up a hand, Draco cut him off. "Because you're a Gryffindor, Weasley."

A retort about the Slytherin house was on the tip of his tongue, but it was of no matter as Malfoy disappeared before he could say a word.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Initially he planned to not go to that bloody tea room, but his curiosity won out in the end.

Malfoy was sitting in the back of the room, dressed head to toe in black, which Ron randomly thought looked good on him. Then he wondered why he'd notice such a thing about Malfoy. Clearly he was inhaling far too much dust working in the bookshop.

"I'm here," he informed Malfoy, pulling out a chair across from him and tucking in. "Because I'm a Gryffindor." A fleeting smirk punctuated the statement.

"Indeed you are," Malfoy said, nodding at a hovering waitwitch.

The woman bustled over to their table with tea service, setting it in between the two men. "Cream? Sugar?" she asked, raising the kettle. 

"Thank you. We'll take care of ourselves," Ron said, waving the witch away. He then looked at Malfoy expectantly.

"Yes?" Malfoy said, one brow lifting as he met Ron's gaze.

"How do you take it?" he asked impatiently, pouring an adequate amount of tea into both cups before carefully setting the kettle down.

"A dash of semi-skimmed, no sugar."

"Of _course_ no sugar," Ron muttered under his breath, fixing tea to Malfoy's specifications and presenting him with the cup. Once he had his own cup prepared, he blew across the steaming surface and then took a small sip, pulling a face.

It was horrid. 

How _anyone_ could muck up boiling a kettle of tea, he didn't know.

"This is shite," he said flatly, setting his cup down.

"I assure you it isn't," Malfoy said, taking a drink of his own tea.

Ron half-expected him to melt or keel over dead, but neither of those things happened. Malfoy didn't even put on a disgusted sort of expression. Clearly he was used to sub par tea. 

"Right," Ron said loudly, giving Malfoy a look that he hoped bellowed 'YES IT SODDING IS'.

"I see your social skills have not improved over the years," Draco said after a lengthy pause.

"You're one to talk," Ron shot back. 

"Indeed," Malfoy said in a tone Ron didn't like at all. In fact, he was beginning to hate the word 'indeed'.

"Right then," Ron said in that loud voice again. "So why don't you tell me why the hell you're doing whatever it is you're doing?"

"Clearly, I am drinking tea, Weasley, because you served it to me."

"Don't be a fuckwit, you git."

"Excellent advice," Draco said. Ron could have sworn one of the corners of his mouth twitched. Arrogant bastard. 

After taking another sip of his tea, Malfoy then folded his hands together and nodded. "I did owl you that parcel, yes. I thought it only fair since you rightfully laid hands on it first."

"Damned right I did," Ron sniffed. But that still didn't explain why he had owled him, he thought. "That still doesn't explain why you sent me that owl the other month, Malfoy."

"You received my owl?" 

"Yeah."

"You never replied," Malfoy said after a beat.

"Nope." He didn't offer any further explanation, which likely pissed Malfoy right off. Ron was perfectly all right with pissing Malfoy right off, actually. "Why'd you owl me?"

It took Malfoy yonks to reply. Ron stared at him expectantly, nodding a little in encouragement.

The hands that Malfoy had folded dropped to his lap, along with his gaze. 

While he waited (and waited and waited) for Malfoy to respond, Ron noticed something.

Malfoy looked _old_. Hermione had looked old the first time he'd seen her after Harry had died, but this was different somehow. He looked old, but not like her. She'd looked old and tired, like she needed to hibernate for a few months. Malfoy looked old but he also looked _free_. Free like someone who'd been accused of a bloody awful crime and had been punished or somesuch for yonks and just got pardoned. There was this way about him that was...well, it was intoxicating. Ron didn't know why he hadn't noticed it before. It was like some sort of a weight had been lifted. Had something happened to him? Is that why he felt like he could just follow Ron about or whatever else he pleased?

A twinge of something that Ron hadn't felt in a long time hit him. Jealousy.

If he was right and Malfoy felt free, then Ron was extremely jealous of him. 

He certainly didn't feel free. True, he'd left the Burrow because it had become too oppressive for him. But just leaving his family's home didn't make him free. Burdened down with listlessness and anger over Harry's death and the void that he'd left, Ron was anything but free.

Now he knew he longed to be free more than anything.

"This tea," Malfoy said instead of answering his question, "is shite."

"No it isn't," Ron said automatically. "It's lovely. It's the best sodding cup of tea ever made. Now why'd you owl me?"

"Don't be a prig. You hate this tea. You said so yourself." 

"Why'd you owl me?" Ron pressed, waving away Malfoy's attempts at balking on the answer. 

"I'd prefer a better cup of tea first, Weasley."

"You aren't going to get one here."

"Your break should be over."

"You're right," Ron said, standing and tossing a few coins on the table. "And I know where you can get a better cup of tea."

"And where, pray tell, would that be?" Malfoy asked as he brushed at non-existent wrinkles on a sleeve. 

"My flat. 101 Diagon Alley, Flat 2. Half-seven this evening."

"Weasley, I will not be--"

But Ron didn't give Malfoy the chance to finish his excuse. Leaning in, he poked Malfoy in the chest with one finger. "Be there." 

He didn't wait for a response. After all, he was more than a few minutes over his break as it was.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"How's the tea?"

Ron set his own cuppa down on the top of the mantle and leaned on the corner, staring over at Malfoy expectantly.

"Better than the tea this afternoon."

He snorted. "Better? Is that all you can manage? It's better than better, Malfoy. I make the best fucking cuppa this side of Buckingham Palace."

"It's a wonder your head fits inside your flat, Weasley. It is rather small, after all." Malfoy gave him a brief smile. "The flat, I mean."

"Ha ha," Ron said, rolling his eyes. 

He then gave Malfoy a courtesy moment of silence, expecting the other man to start any moment now with where they had left off in their earlier conversation. When it became obvious that Malfoy wasn't going to get right down to business, he made a noise of disgust (and sounded eerily like Hermione when she did the same) and took a seat beside Malfoy on the settee.

"Something the matter?" Malfoy asked, placing his cup on the coffee table. 

_Why?_ is what Ron wanted to ask, to press Malfoy about that posted he'd sent him. But that wasn't the question that came out of his mouth.

"How?" he asked, his eyes flickering all over Malfoy's face, taking in the crows feet that were starting to set in around his eyes, the slight dip in his pointy chin, the curve of his lips, the startling sort of _openness_ in his eyes.

"How what?" Malfoy replied, brow furrowing. "You're not making any sense, Weasley."

"How'd you do it?"

"I don't--"

"How are you different?" 

"I'm not."

"That's bollocks and you know it. For starters, you're sitting here in my flat. If that's not fucking different then how things used to be, then I don't know what the sod different means." 

Malfoy nodded solemnly after a beat. "I am different," he said. "I'm myself."

"As opposed to...?"

"As opposed to Draco Malfoy, son of Lucius Malfoy, Expected Death Eater-To-Be, Always One Step Behind The Great Harry Potter."

At the mention of Harry, Ron winced. Biting down hard on his lower lip, he stood up and crossed back to the mantle, downing the remainder of his cuppa in one gulp.

"Have I misspoke?" 

The springs in the settee creaked and Ron knew without turning around that Malfoy, too, rose from the cushions.

"No," Ron mumbled. Slowly, he turned round to face Malfoy again. "You were saying?"

"I was saying that I am finally myself, which is indeed-" _There's that sodding word again._ \- "different, I suppose. Lucius, as you know, was killed early in the war. I was expected to follow in his footsteps and become a Death Eater and help Our Lord exterminate Potter and any other threats so that he could claim ownership of the Wizarding World. Before Lucius died, I would have done it because that was what he always told me was my purpose. After his death, my perspective, you could say, changed. And here I am now, Weasley." He paused to take of his tea again. "Does that satisfy your question?"

It didn't. It really didn't. Malfoy hadn't addressed everything; he'd glossed right over the part about Harry. Ron was aching to know just how Malfoy overcame his desire to be hateful to or harm Harry; he knew that Malfoy had, even if he'd not said so directly. 

But he wasn't going to ask. 

Ron wasn't going to ask him. It was obvious that Malfoy had figured it out on his own. If Malfoy could work out how to move on and not centre his life around Harry or the idea of Harry as he always had, then Ron sure as hell should have been able to do the same.

"Yeah," he said slowly, unwilling to meet Malfoy's eyes.

Malfoy's eyes burned into his. Ron wanted nothing more than to tear his gaze away but he couldn't; he felt pinned down by Draco's stare.

"Liar," Malfoy said shrewdly.

_Who does he think he sodding is? What right does he have to come into my bloody flat and fucking call me a--_

"Get out." Heat rose in his cheeks and he scowled, pointing at the door.

"No."

"Get. OUT."

"I don't believe I will, Weasley." 

Now that _really_ hacked Ron off. Wand drawn in a flash, he advanced on Malfoy. 

"I said get out, you slimy Slytherin--"

Ron's insult was cut short unexpectedly when one of Malfoy's hands reached out and grabbed his wrist, forcing him to flex his fingers and drop his wand, and the other wrapped around his waist and yanked him in for a fierce, demanding kiss.

_Malfoy is snogging me. Malfoy is-- Oh fuck._

Malfoy was indeed (ha!) snogging him and snogging him but _good_ , taste of tea and confidence all rolled into one. Ron had never thought much about snogging blokes before but this was _so_ much better than snogging a bird had ever been. Malfoy wasn't tentative and gentle like most of the birds he'd snogged had been. He was a fucking force to be reckoned with and Ron snogged back with just as much force, snaking his tongue into Malfoy's mouth and sweeping across teeth and against his own tongue. The hand Malfoy didn't have very well immobilised reached up and fisted in Malfoy's hair, twisting and pulling and--

"Weasley," Malfoy murmured in his ear before darting his tongue out to move along the shell. 

"Malfoy," Ron said in return, twining his fingers further, caught up in how fucking brilliant it was all of a sudden to have Malfoy's chest pressed up against his and how fast his heart was beating in his chest. 

"You lied to me." Malfoy's hands were at his waist now, his teeth tugging on Ron's ear.

"You lied to me first," Ron said pointedly, yanking on his hair.

"I--"

"You did."

"Shut up, Weasley." Malfoy stuck a hand down the front of Ron's trousers and cupped him.

"No. You shut up, Malfoy." Irate, he pulled Malfoy's hand out of his trousers and shoved him hard. So hard, in fact, that he stumbled back a few feet, nearly falling over the coffee table.

That didn't sit too well with Malfoy. Regaining his balance, he then lunged at Ron, hands grabbing whatever bits of him they could find purchase on, hauling him down onto the ground in a tangle of limbs.

"You _fuckwit_ ," Ron growled, pushing at him. "Answer my fucking question, git."

"I won't," Malfoy panted, fisting a hand in his jumper. "Not until you tell me why you just lied to me."

"Oh, sod the--sod it-- fuck _all_ ," Ron bellowed. 

Then he slammed his lips into Malfoy's. Malfoy yelped as Ron's teeth crashed against his and Ron could taste a coppery sharpness. He wasn't sure who was bleeding - Malfoy or himself. It didn't matter, though. How could anything matter when Malfoy slipped his tongue into his mouth and a hand down into his trousers again?

He felt his cock throb and whimpered, raising his hips as best he could so he could press himself into Malfoy's hand. Malfoy didn't disappoint, his hand rubbing up and down Ron's length. He had to wrench his mouth back so he could _moan_ , then latched on to a patch of supple skin at the base of Malfoy's neck, sucking and licking and tasting.

This must have felt good to Malfoy, who actually _whimpered_. The sound made Ron even harder than before and he clamped his teeth down on Malfoy's flesh in response, grinding against his hand.

"Fuck!" Malfoy shouted, squeezing Ron and jerking against his mouth.

"Yeah," Ron said, laving his tongue over the spot he'd just pretty well branded. "Fuck."

Beneath him, Malfoy stilled. "Weasley?"

"Yeah," Ron said firmly. "Yeah."

Yeah. That was what he wanted. Right then and there, that was what he _needed_.

He needed to fuck or be fucked. He needed to feel wanted, to feel like he had some sort of a sodding purpose in the grand scheme of things. Ron was tired, so incredibly tired of not knowing what to do anymore. Even if this wouldn't solve all of his problems, it was a distraction A release.

There was a tiny part of him that hoped maybe it might lead to other things. Other things that he wasn't willing to admit to the larger part of himself that he wanted.

"Yeah," Malfoy repeated quietly, somewhat calmly.

The calm before the storm.

And what a bloody brilliant storm it was.

Malfoy wasted no time in actually getting Ron's trousers and pants out of the way, pausing only to divest them of their jumpers and unfasten the buttons on his own trousers before curling his fingers around Ron's cock. He hissed and bucked his hips up, the hiss turning into a stammer and then a gasp as he felt Malfoy's fingers run along the vein on the underside and a thumb push against his slit. The gasp turned into a moan as Malfoy began to stroke and it was all he could do not to just ram right _through_ his hand, all rocking hips and chattering teeth and _God_ , that thing he was doing, the squeeze-stroke-swipe pattern was just absolutely the most fucking brilliant thing _ever_ \--

"Malfoy," Ron keened, all flailing limbs and quivering thighs.

"What, Weasley?" Malfoy had the fucking audacity to look a bit smug.

_Not so entirely different, is he, the prat._

"Now."

"You Gryffindors always were a pushy lot," Malfoy said, letting go of Ron's cock. It flopped back against his belly, angry and red and so fucking hard he couldn't _stand_ it--

"Shut up or I'll Disapparate," Ron said haltingly, screwing his eyes shut and willing some of the tension in his balls and the now-painful hardness in his cock to go away.

"You won't," Malfoy said, leaning over and silencing any protests with a searing kiss. 

Needing air badly, Ron pulled back and sucked in large amounts, burying his face against Malfoy's shoulder. He heard him murmur something and then there was a slick finger pressing against his entrance. 

"Oh-"

"Wait," Malfoy said, and then he kissed him as his finger breached Ron's hole, slipping into a tight ring of muscle. Ron tried to concentrate on kissing back but he'd never had anyone touch him like that and his hips automatically rocked _back_ , muscles clenching. Another finger slid in and then another and Ron's moan was swallowed up in by Malfoy's hot little mouth. He could feel Malfoy withdraw his fingers a little bit and he whimpered, having just gotten used to the feel of them when Malfoy shoved his fingers back in and _oh God_ it was all Ron could do not to come right then and there. A shudder tore through his frame and he gulped, hands scrabbling along Malfoy's shoulders. 

"Please," he gasped. "Please."

"Yes," Malfoy whispered, licking the corner of Ron's mouth as he nudged his legs further apart. 

There was a hard nudge at his pucker and then he felt the head of Malfoy's cock push through. It felt so fucking fantastic and hot and muscles clamped down and it was wicked and wonderful and so much more real than anything he'd ever felt before. He let out a shout, lungs pushing the air right out of him lightning quick, his hips angling up to push his arse against Malfoy's invasion, arms wrapping around his back. 

"MOVE," he roared, digging his fingers into Malfoy's back and pulling him down with as much force as he could muster. 

Move Malfoy did, slamming his hips against Ron's. Ron could hear his balls slam against his arse, feel his cock fill him up, feel the muscles in Malfoy's back, feel the sweat of their bodies mingle, and, above all else, feel the heat of his cock trapped between their bellies.

"More," Ron demanded, moving his hands down to cup Malfoy's arse, yanking him and pulling, helping him to find a rhythm. Malfoy pounded into him mercilessly, hair hanging in his eyes and plastered on his forehead, grunting with every thrust, moaning every time Ron clenched down on his cock. 

"More," Malfoy rasped, reaching a hand in between them and stroking Ron in time with the rocking of their bodies. 

"Yes," Ron moaned, reaching a hand up in that damp hair and pulling Malfoy's face to his again. Lips and teeth nipped and mouthed as hips rolled and drove and then Ron couldn't take it anymore; he had to come. He came hard and fast, spilling his seed all over Malfoy's hand and onto his stomach. Yelling from the sheer force of it, he thrust back wildly on Malfoy's cock. Malfoy _screamed_ and then trust one more time shallowly, following Ron over the edge and collapsing against his chest.

"Greedy Gryffindor wanker," he complained, his lips moving against Ron's shoulder.

"You're not entirely different after all," Ron noted, quite convinced he was seeing stars. It was difficult to get the words out; he'd just been good and properly shagged and could happily drift off to sleep. Even with Malfoy's cock still in his arse and a tonne of come and sweat pooling between their bodies.

"I am," Malfoy said slowly, tongue swiping a patch of saltysweat slick skin. "And so are you, even if you don't think you are, Weasley."

He opened his mouth to protest and promptly closed it.

Maybe he was. 

Maybe just a little.

He wasn't sure if he was _entirely_ different, but, for the moment, he felt a lot freer than he had in yonks.


End file.
